In His Web
by ArthurDent2
Summary: Potterlock. John, a muggle-born, gets thrown into a new world of magic and wizards, when he is enrolled to Hogwarts school. There he meets a boy called Sherlock, and things begin to get complicated... Murder and mystery ensues.
1. Prologue

**A/N: YAY! I've been really wanting to write a potterlock for while now. And to the people who read my Transferred teenlock story, I realise I said I would finish it first before I wrote anything else, and I'm really sorrry (kinda), but I couldn't wait. It kept on nagging at my mind all the time, like 'write me, write me', so Transferred will be on hold for a little bit. :P**

**Hope you find this enjoyable to read.**

**THIS IS A PROLOGUE**

* * *

"You're a wizard."

The words echoed inside John's head.

He could not stop thinking about that sentence, spoken a short, stout, and very odd woman, dressed in yellow and green robes, a few days previously.

Now, that had been a very strange day.

It all began when John was awoken, by a tapping on his bedroom window. He was a very light sleeper and to his annoyance, it easily woke him up. He looked for the source of the noise, to be surprised to see and owl, of all things.

What the-

The owl continued it's insistent pecking at the glass, and John confused and bleary from just being woken up, just stared. The owl became exasperated, which he wasn't even sure was possible, and began peck harder.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," he said slurred. Wait, why was he talking to it? It couldn't understand him. It was a bloody owl. Even more importantly, why was there an owl at his window in the first place?

He stood from his bed and walked slowly to the window, and then very cautiously he opened it, for the owl to come inside. The bird swopped in, and rested upon his desk, giving him a glare, which looked as if he was saying 'it's about time', but owls did not give glares, so John must be mistaken. Wait a moment, he was pretty sure they didn't deliver letter's either.

The bird dropped a heavy, stationary envelope, on the desk, which John had only then noticed was ever in its beak. It gave him an expectant look.

"Uhhh, thank you?" he tried.

The owl did not look satisfied and gave him a small, and quite painful peck on the arm, before flying out through the window.

"I said thank you!" John called after it annoyed. Wait, no, owls couldn't speak English. What was he doing? He shook his head.

He stepped away from the window and looked towards his desk with the letter on it.

He carefully picked it off of the table and examined it. It was lighter than it looked and made of very old looking parchment, crisp and splotched with yellow and brown, like the way you made it with teabags, but it was clearly real, gone that way from age. It was sealed with a wax stamp; he'd never actually gotten a letter with a wax stamp on it before. Impregnated in the wax appeared to be some kind of seal, that read Hogwarts, with a strange combinations of animals, a large letter 'H' on it and some words he didn't understand. He turned it around and read the addressing. It said '_Mr. John Watson, Bedroom at the Top of the Stairs, 174 Hillside Crescent, Cheshunt, United Kingdom'_.

Well, it was meant for him then.

He, as gently as he could, without breaking the wax, he tore open the envelope.

He pulled out a letter, made from the same old parchment, and began to read.

_Dear Mr. Watson,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

_Yours sincerely, _

_Filius Flitwick,_

_Deputy Headmaster_

He moved on to the next page.

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL_

_of WHICHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_

_UNIFORM_

_First-year students will require:_

_ sets of plain work robes (black)_

_ plain pointed hat (black) for day wear_

_ pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)_

_ winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)_

_Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags._

_COURSE BOOKS_

_All students should have a copy of each of the following:_

_The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_

_by Miranda Goshawk_

_A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot_

_Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling_

_A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch_

_One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_

_by Phyllida Spore_

_Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger_

_Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them _

_by Newt Scamander_

_The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_

_by Quentin Trimble_

_OTHER EQUIPMENT_

_1 wand_

_1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)_

_1 set glass or crystal phials_

_1 telescope_

_1 set brass scales_

_Students may also bring and owl OR a cat OR a toad._

_PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS._

It was definitely the strangest letter John had ever received.

It must have been a joke, he laughed (a bit forced and nervous) and threw the letter in the bin. He felt a pang of guilt at binning it, but seriously, it had to be some elaborate prank, he would be completely bonkers to think anything else. It was a _very_ elaborate prank though. Who would train an owl just to send a letter? Could you even train an owl? And it was a very strange owl as well. It seemed almost human, the way it looked at him. He shook his head. He was being silly, of course someone was just playing with him, even if he couldn't think of one person who would.

He did not mention the letter to his mum or his sister. No, that would just be awkward and lead to questions he would not be able to answer.

He sat at the kitchen table, spooning large bites of porridge into his mouth, when the doorbell rang.

He looked up as his mother walked to the door, but returned to his porridge. It was probably just a neighbor or one of those advertisement blokes.

He heard his mother open the door, and give a small, involuntary yelp of surprise.

"Oh… Hello, can I help you?" his mother said in not her usually polite voice, but in a peculiar, high one.

"Hello! I am here to talk to you and John," said a squeaky, but very friendly sounding woman, "Can I come in?"

"Oh, of course," his mother said still unsure.

A short, large, but very warm woman suddenly entered the kitchen. When John first saw her, he nearly choked on his breakfast.

She was wearing what only could be described as robes or a cloak, in bright yellow and green, pointed purple shoes, and held a very peculiar handbag. Her hair was grey and short, pinned smoothly up in many curls, with a hat that looked as if it was made out of some kind of plant, but certainly not one John had ever seen.

Her face lit up as her eyes landed on John and she excitedly waddled towards him and held out a hand.

"Professor Sprout," she grinned, "Hello John."

John was still coughing a bit but managed, "Uh, yes hello," he swallowed down his porridge and cleared his throat, "Sorry, but how do you know my name?"

"Oh, I know a lot about you John Watson," her smile widened and she winked.

"Uhhh…"

His mother joined them, "Sorry, but I'm afraid I didn't catch your name."

"Oh of course," she turned to John's mother and held her hand out once more, "Professor Sprout, of Hogwarts School."

John had tried another spoonful, but at hearing this, spat it out.

"What?" he exclaimed.

"Yes John, I am here, representing Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and I assume you have already received your letter, yes?"

John's mother gaped at her, as if she'd just said, well actually what she'd just said exactly.

"Sorry?" she spluttered.

"Oh, my dear. Mrs. Watson, I believe you might want to sit down."

* * *

Professor Sprout explained everything, and yes it took hours of talking and trying to convince them, and even a bit of magic. John's mother might have kicked her out of the house, but she sounded so serious, and she was so kind. Also, bizarrely, something rang true in her words.

She wanted John to come to a school that she worked for, where they studied magic.

She told them of the wizarding world and how John apparently was something called 'a muggle born wizard', she then proceeded to explain what a muggle was.

This school she came from, besides being for _wizards_, sounded excellent too.

John mostly sat frozen in shock the whole time, but listened intently.

John had always been a bit different. He was very social and likable, and had friends, but he always felt _different_. He sometimes did things he couldn't understand, that none of the other kids could do. And even though Professor Sprout sounded like a complete nutter saying all these things, John knew inside that it must be true, it just felt… _right_. Besides, no one would take some joke this far.

Professor Sprout preformed some, supposedly very simple, magic, but he thought it was amazing. She went to a vase, resting on the fireplace mantel, and made the flower in it, begin to rot and die in seconds, right in front of there eyes, then just with a flick of her stick, or as she called it, her _wand_, and the process reversed and the flower went back to it's healthy self. His mother had a small panic attack.

"You're a wizard, John, and we'd like you to come to Hogwarts to learn magic."

He paused, "Yes."

She smiled and he gave her one in return.

"Well then, the Hogwarts Express leaves from King's Cross Station, platform nine and three-quarters, on September 1st, eleven o'clock sharp. I'll see you in 1st year Herbology, in a month." She then disappeared into thin air with a _CRACK_.

"Wait, there's not any platform nine and three-quarters a King's Cross Station!" he called after her, but of course it was too late. Well, he didn't think wizards or magic existed before either, so it was probably just another one of their secrets. He would figure it out.

John's mother slowly turned to him, and weakly said, "Did that just happen?"

"I believe so."

"Oh."

She fainted.

* * *

**A/N: Next chapter soon, hopefully, I think... All the fault goes towards my school if it takes a while. :P**

**MERCI BEAUCOUP FOR SUPPORT AND REVIEWS AND ALL THAT JAZZ. :D**


	2. A Train Ride and Some Strange Encounters

**A/N: Whoops, sorry this took a long time, but school is busy. To be realistic, uploads will probably take more or less around this time now... sorry :( I wish it didn't have to be. And oh my flop, thanks for all the support guys, Transferred has nearly 2,000 view... FLOPPING 20,000 and almost THIRTY follows. That's way more than I ever thought I'd get, I mean I just started this account to post one story that I'd written with my best friend, and then I just said 'what the heck? I think I'll write another,' and so on. MERCI. **

**Any who, I am starting to gush, soooo here is the (technically) 1st chapter! :D **

* * *

"Just run at this brick wall?" he asked nervously.

"Yes dear, just take a run right at it. Don't stop until you get to the other side either, don't want to get stuck," she smiled. John did not feel reassured.

"Um, okay…"

"Look, my son Greg, it's his 3rd year; he'll go first, to show you. Then, you do it."

"Uh yeah okay."

She urged her son forward. He took a firm grip on his trolley and rushed ahead. When he reached the wall, John flinched, almost certainly expecting him to crash, but nothing. Nothing happened. The boy disappeared. John gapped.

The woman gently pushed him forward, "Now you."

John took a deep breath, and broke into a run, straight for the wall. He braced himself, closing his eyes.

No impact. He inched his eyes open.

Before his was a huge crowd of bustling people. People pushing their carts and dragging trunks, strangely clothed relatives waving goodbye and parents rushing their children onto the train; the _scarlet_ train.

John stood frozen. He couldn't move. His mind could not wrap around all of this _magic_. He'd just ran through a solid, well supposedly solid, brick wall to get to a secret platform, where a oddly colored train awaited him, to take him to a secret school for bloody wizards.

Someone knocked him over though, effectively unsticking him from where he stood. He hadn't moved from the entrance of the wall.

"Oi!" shouted an annoyed voice. John scrambled for his belongings and stood to face an older boy.

"Oh, uh, sorry, I just-" John began.

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever," he said sourly. He collected his belongings and strode off towards the train.

John sighed and followed his general direction.

He made his way onto the train, and sat in an empty compartment. He had already said goodbye to his mother at the entrance to King's Cross Station.

He hadn't thought it was a good idea for her to come with him. She was already so overwhelmed by their visitor; it had taken him hours to convince her that it wasn't all a strange and horrible dream. Harry was the one that had to take him to get his school gear because she didn't feel comfortable doing it. So John told his mother that it was alright for him to go by himself, he'd been to King's Cross enough times, and she didn't argue. She took him into a tight, long hug and gave him a peck on the head, before saying goodbye and parting ways.

John hoisted his trunk onto the ledge above the seats and sat down. He was unsure what to do. He was alone; most of the other kids were still outside bidding their family goodbye.

He glanced up at his luggage. He couldn't help himself. He stood again, and pushed the case open, taking out a thin wooden object. His _wand_. He closed his trunk and sat once more. He studied the stick of wood fondly. It was a good fit for him. Apparently it was _meant_ for him, it had _chosen_ him. It sounded strange, because that would mean it had feelings, but when he held it in his hands, it felt alive, almost buzzing with energy. It was dark oak and very strong, not exactly slender, but not a chunky. It hand a short, ringed handle with a long rounded tip. It was very sleek, it didn't shine, and it was a bit rough on the edges, but that suited John just fine. He liked his wand the way it was.

He remembered the day he bought it.

It was a week or so after they had their visit from Professor Sprout. Harry and him took the underground to London, which wasn't far from where they lived, to go to 'The Leaky Cauldron'. They had been instructed to go there by Professor Sprout. All she said was to go there, and tell the bartender they were looking for Hogwart's school supplies.

As soon as they'd entered, it felt different. Like no bar either of them had ever seen. Well, actually Harry hadn't seen it. When they arrived to the destined location, John almost immediately spotted it, but for some reason Harry couldn't see it until they were at the door and John pushed her in. Professor Sprout had said there would be some muggle repelling charm.

John pulled Harry along with him, and approached the bartender.

"Hello," John began.

"Can I help you?"

"Uh, yes. See, my sister here," he gestured to Harry and lowered him voice a bit, "is a muggle so we don't really know what we're doing," he paused, "but I need my supplies for Hogwarts, but all I was told was to ask you."

The bartender stared at him for a moment but then nodded and yelled behind his shoulder, "Oi! Jerry! Take these people here to the entrance!"

There was a clatter and someone materialized from the kitchen. He was a tall, scrawny boy, looked just old enough to be out of school.

The bartender gestured to Harry and John.

"Oh, right then," the boy, 'Jerry', said, "follow me."

He led them through the back door of the pub and to the back, but there was only a wall.

"Uh, what…" John began, but Jerry ignored him and taking a stick, no _wand_, from his pocket, he tapped some bricks in some kind of pattern. Nothing happened for a moment.

"How is this-" Harry started, but just then something amazing happened, silencing her.

The bricks, they began to move, resort themselves, and slide around, until a doorway was formed.

"Holy _fuck_," Harry gapped. John stared at the newly formed arch in amazement, he didn't think he would ever get used to magic.

"There you go," Jerry stepped forward, through the doorway, "Welcome to Diagon Alley."

John was so busy being amazed at the bricks; he didn't even notice what was behind it; a busy street, entirely full of people; very odd people, and very odd shops, with very odd names. Harry seemed unable to close her mouth.

"Well, there you go. First you need to go to Gringotts to convert your muggle money into Galleons, then, you can get your books and Flourish and Blotts, your robes at that shop down there," he said pointing to another store, "Madam Malkin's, get your ingredients at the Apothecary, get your wand at Olivander's, your cauldron at Potage's Cauldron Shop and most of your supplies stuff at Wiseacre's Wizarding Equiment," Jerry finished quickly. John made no sense of hardly anything he had said. "I'd better get back now." Jerry went back into the pub, leaving Harry and John still dazed.

Yet, somehow they managed to follow Jerry's instructions. They converted their money, got John fitted for robes, got his books, got his potions ingredients, got his cauldron, and got his other supplies, but all with the help of many other people. They had loads of muggle-borns who didn't know what they were doing every year, apparently, which made John feel much better. Harry seemed to be coping pretty, too, with all of, well, everything.

John wanted to get an owl, but they didn't have enough money for it, but he didn't complain, he understood. His family wasn't exactly rich, with his father gone and his mother trying to balance their bills with 3 jobs. Besides, supposedly the school had their own post owls you could borrow.

He'd checked everything off his list, all except for a wand, which he was most excited for, but saved for last. They ventured to Olivander's, John practically buzzing with anticipation. When they arrived, the store was cluttered and, in reality was large, but felt small with all the shelves pushed together and full to the brim with small rectangular boxes.

Harry found a stool in the corner to rest on, as John approached the front desk. He looked around, but there didn't seem to be anyone in the shop. He rang the bell, unsure quite what to do. Suddenly there was a rustling in the back and a head full, well _half_ full, of frayed white hair appeared from behind and shelf.

"Oh hello. Welcome to Olivander's," he stepped forward, from the mess of shelves to behind the counter, "I am Olivander and you?"

"John," he replied, "John Watson."

"Here to buy a wand Mr. Watson?" he smiled, but in a mysterious way, not sinister but not exactly nice. John wasn't sure he liked Olivander very much.

"Uh, yeah."

"Good, good! Now my boy, just step on over here," he gestured for John to a spot beside him. He pulled out a measuring tape, and to John's surprise, it jumped out of his hands and began to measure him with no help from Olivander.

It measured very strange places though, like his jaw, or his knee, even the distance between his nostrils. John didn't understand how the tape was helping anything.

Suddenly the measuring tape stopped and just fell from the air onto the floor. Olivander looked up, from where the tape was previously measuring John's ankle, and grinned at him. He scrambled and rushed to a pile of boxes, muttering to himself, until he found the one he was looking for.

He rushed up to John, but gently set the box on the desk, he opened it and removed the contents very cautiously. He carefully handed, what John then realized was a, wand. He took it from Olivander's hands and examined it. It was dark wood, almost black, and slender, with a twisted handle.

"11 inches, Blackthorn, unicorn hair core, surprisingly swishy," Olivander said, not looking away from the wand, as if mesmerized by it.

John didn't know what to do, he just stood their, looking at it.

"Well go on! Swish it!" Olivander said excitedly.

"Uh, okay."

John outstretched his arms and flicked the wand in the air. He felt a sudden rush of energy flow through him and a strange sensation, not entirely enjoyable, but instead uncomfortable, almost as if the wand did not approve of him. Some boxes, in the direction he pointed the Blackthorn, blasted off their ledge.

"Oh no, no, no, no, no, no!" Olivander shook his head and took the wand from John's grip, putting it back in its box and disappearing to the back once more, muttering to him-self. He returned with another box in his hands.

"10 ½ inches, Chestnut, phoenix feather core, particularly pliant," he said handing the wand to John.

He swished the wand, and another; not unpleasant but not quite agreeable, feeling surged through him. He was blasted back about a meter. Olivander snatched the wand from his hands and left to retrieve another box.

"7 inches, Cypress, kelpie mane, tremendously tough."

John took the wand, and swished it. It jumped from his hand.

"Hmm, I think not," Olivander said, hastily taking it from John's hands, "You are a very difficult customer Mr. Watson."

Five wands and very bizarre happenings later, Olivander emerged from the counter, with a confident look about him. He was sure this was the one.

"9 ¾ inches, Oak, dragon heart string core, satisfyingly sturdy."

John took the wand in his hand, and immediately felt an almost happy sensation. He excitedly swished it and power surged through him. The lights in the room dimmed and red sparks flew from the tip of the Oak. The wand felt warm and comfortable in his hand.

He looked up at Olivander, who had awe in his eyes, watching the wand. John wondered how many times a day, for how many years this man had seen this happen and how he could still be amazed by it.

The man tore his gaze away from the wand and gave John a please look.

"Ah, there it is. The wand has chosen the wizard."

John was snapped back into reality when the train's whistle blew, and his compartment door slide open, as a very agitated looking boy entered, followed by a lean black cat.

The boy sighed, "This appears to be the last relatively empty compartment, not comprised of complete idiots," he forced an unconvincing smile, "May I join you?"

John was taken aback but managed a weak, "Uh, yeah, sure."

The boy pushed his trunk onto the stall above and sat stiffly down. He then proceeded to completely ignore John and intensely glare out the window. The cat rested upon his lap, and he began to unconsciously stroke her. It was a strange sight.

John studied him. He was about his age, probably also a first year if he didn't have anyone else to sit with, not that John was sure that he necessarily would, with the way he talked. He was tall for an eleven year old, and very slim. His face was far too slender and angular for his age, and his cheekbones, whoa, not normal. What preteen had full cheekbones? He had a head of bouncy dark curls, which stood out from his snow pale skin. John was intrigued by him but looked away, not wanting to be caught staring.

They sat in silence. Then, the train began to move. John just then realized that he would have to sit here with this, as far as he could judge, rude and apparently very annoyed boy for the entire ride. _Great_.

"Sherlock Holmes."

John looked back at him, startled.

"Sorry?"

"My name," he said, "I am Sherlock Holmes, and you are John Watson."

"Uh yeah, I am. How did you know that?"

He smirked, "It says on your trunk."

"Oh, right."

More silence.

"So… Sherlock, that's a peculiar name," John said, attempting to make conversation.

Sherlock gave an exasperate sigh, "Oh must we really engage in such arduous small talk?"

This was definitely not a regular eleven year old; he spoke more sophisticatedly than any adult John had ever met, for god's sake.

"Uh..."

"Oh look and he's such an articulate too," he muttered to himself.

"Oi! I'm just trying to be friendly!" John exclaimed. Sherlock cocked his head, ever so slightly and looked at him like he'd never heard the word before. "You know what, never mind."

* * *

Sherlock was not uncomfortable. Most would be after being called out for being rude, and ignored, but he was not. He was too used to it happening, and it did happen some times, but it was the better than what usually happened. He didn't understand why exactly what he was saying was rude or insensitive a lot of the time. He was just observing, but he had to admit, he understood why John Watson was already showing distaste for him. _Of course he was; everyone always did_, Sherlock though sourly.

He looked away from the window, which his gaze was starting to burn a hole into, to the boy sat across from him, who seemed to be deep in thought. Sherlock's expression softened, though he didn't mean for it to.

John Watson was, of course a first year, he was alone before Sherlock had come in, so he hadn't made any friends, but John seemed exactly the popular, social type, so he must of not met anyone yet; it was just one of the many reasons Sherlock could tell. He was muggle-born too, obviously. Came from a poor household; struggling mother, rebellious brother- no, sister, and a missing father. Couldn't afford an owl. He played rugby, or soccer, one of those silly muggle sports. He would flourish in quidditch. He was nervous about his first year, still unfamiliar to magic, confused. And he did not like Sherlock, clearly.

Sherlock gathered all of this from one glance, one second of deduction. It was easy, at least for Sherlock. He was only eleven and he was more intelligent than almost any adult he'd ever met, it had been that way even since an early age.

Despite his vast knowledge and high intellect, something was bothering Sherlock, he did not want to say anything, but he had never met a muggle-born before, and he had to know. Before he could stop himself he blurted, "What exactly is a toaster?"

"What?" John asked startled, breaking away from his thoughts.

"What is a toaster?"

"Are you seriously telling me you don't know what a toaster is?"

"No, I asked you, what is a toaster?" Sherlock sighed. This John character was proving to be rather slow. John rolled his eyes.

"How do you not know what a toaster is?"

"Am I meant to know about every muggle appliance ever made?" he snapped.

"Wait, wizards don't have toasters?"

"No, wizards don't use what muggles call 'electricity'."

"So you really don't know what it is?"

"Evidently, otherwise I would not be repeatedly asking you."

"Fine, fine," he exhaled, "Toasters are an invention that allow people to 'toast' their bread. It makes toast. Like browning the bread, making it crispy."

"I am aware what toast is and what a toaster does."

"Wait, do wizards use magic to toast their bread?" he shook his head uncomprehendingly, then exclaimed, "If you know what a toaster does, then why are you asking me?"

"I merely wish to know how it works."

"How am I supposed to know? I didn't invent it. I just uses electricity to heat the bread up, I suppose."

"Yes, but what is 'electricity' exactly?" Sherlock inquired, unconsciously leaning forward.

"Uh… It's like… Well, it's electricity, I don't know! I never got to that part of science, and now that I'm going to Hogwarts, I suppose I never will." John paused. "Why do you care anyways? I mean you said that you didn't use electricity, you don't need to know."

"Just because I do not need to, does not mean I do not wish to," Sherlock grumbled, leaning back into his seat and crossing his arms across his chest.

"Why haven't you just asked anyone before?"

"I'm asking you now, aren't I? Besides, I've never had contact with a muggle or muggle-born before, so I had no one to ask until now," he shrugged.

"Oh, I- Hold on. How did you know I was muggle-born?" he demanded.

"Your clothes," Sherlock said gesturing to him, "they just scream muggle."

"Look just because I wasn't raised a-"

Sherlock interrupted him, "It hardly matters to me who or what raised you. You could've been brought up by wolves, for all I care."

"Oh, I- okay then..."

An awkward silence hung in the air.

John paused, contemplating whether or not to speak, but eventually asked, "How can you have _never_ had any contact with any muggle-borns?"

Sherlock paused, pursing his lips in distaste, but said, "My family, all pure-bloods, they've got some senseless power complex; believe themselves to be somehow superior because of their ancestry. They don't wish to… _mingle_." Sherlock suddenly realized what he'd said. Why was he telling this boy, practically a stranger, this? He never said such things to anyone, well anyone except his parents, but they would just ignore him and send him away. John had no right to know that, but it was Sherlock's fault, he was the one that had told him.

"I, uh, wow. I'm not sure exactly how to respond to that…" John admitted.

"You just have."

"Oh, right. I suppose I have."

Another awkward silence.

John moved his gaze to the floor, but Sherlock did not, continuing to watch John. He didn't understand why the boy was talking to him. He was being nice too. Well, not exactly _nice_ but not mean either, which in Sherlock's experience, meant nice, and at this point in meeting, most other boys would have been not so. He had said he was trying to be _friendly_, something that most people in general were not to Sherlock, even at the first meeting.

John Watson was an exception for some reason. Sherlock felt somehow captivated by him, even if he did seem average, and social, not usually his type. Not that he really had a type; he never met anyone who- well, he'd never had a friend before, but John was hardly his _friend,_ he was just being polite. Most people wouldn't exactly call not being horrid, polite, but it was the friendliest any boy his age had been to him so far.

Irene, his cat, stirred in his lap, then jumped off and stalked around the floor, before brushing against John's legs and settling at his feet, quietly purring.

John looked down at the cat in surprised.

"Oh, uh, hello," he said to the cat.

Sherlock stared at the cat, and then to John in disbelief.

"She _never_ does that. Not to anyone but me. She despises _everyone_."

John shrugged and let out a nervous laugh, "Maybe I'm not everyone."

"Perhaps," muttered Sherlock, this time no mockery in his voice, his mind racing.

John's eyebrow rose in inquiry, confused by Sherlock's lack of sarcasm.

John was proving to be very different indeed.

The door slide open and an elderly voice rang out, "Candy from the trolley dears?"

John looked at the mountain of candy the old woman offered him.

"Oh yes please," he said eagerly.

"What would it be then?"

"I, uh, I don't know wizard candy…" John admitted.

"That's just fine. How about a chocolate frog? Most everyone likes chocolate frogs."

"Okay."

"That'll be 6 sickles," she said handing him the box. John withdrew his hand at her words.

"Oh, I, I don't…" he said uncomfortably down at his empty pockets.

"Sorry, dear, but it's 6 sickles. Can't give it to you for any less."

Suddenly Sherlock stood and said, "Not a problem," handing a handful of silver coins to the old woman.

"Thank you dear." The candy lady smiled and trudged away, calling, "Candy from the trolley!"

Sherlock handed the chocolate box over to John, who stared at it in disbelief.

"Wha- why did you do that? You didn't need to," he said, his eyes moving to Sherlock's.

"I fully realize that I did not need to, but I had money to spare," he shrugged.

"Uh, well thanks, I suppose."

John sat down and opened the box, but let out a yelp when a frog jumped out at him, leaving a smudge of chocolate on his cheek. His face was priceless.

"No one told me they were _real_ frogs!"

Sherlock was already restraining a smile, but at this, let out a laugh. John looked at him annoyed at first, but then also burst out laughing, which just fed Sherlock's, until they were both breathless.

* * *

After that, the rest of the train ride went very smoothly. They both got along rather well, and Sherlock found himself smiling much more, which was to say he still smiled very rarely, but more so than before. John found himself liking this boy more than he ever thought he would, even though he was very strange, a bit rude and sadistic. They still spent most of their time in silence, but now it was a comfortable mood, and not an awkward one. He was even a bit disappointed when the train stopped, but now they had arrived at _Hogwarts_.

* * *

**A/N: Hope that was enjoyable. Reviews are much appreciated, especially positive ones *hint hint. THANK YOU FOR READING (if you did). LOVE YOU ALL, unless of course you didn't enjoy the story... then, pffft.**

**BYE**


	3. Sorted and Set

**A/N: Hello! Sorry it's taking so long to upload, school is gruelling :P**

**Anyhow, hope you enjoy the chapter! Thanks for the support :D**

* * *

"Holmes, Sherlock!"

Sherlock dared a quick glance at John, who gave him a small smile, before stepping forward and walking towards the small man holding the old tattered hat.

He sat on the small wooden stool, which was in front of the entire school, and waited for the hat. Darkness closed around him as the hat covered his eyes, and a voice said, "_Hmm, what an interesting mind."_

Sherlock smirked, but the hat couldn't tell.

"_Oh yes, very intelligent, very intelligent indeed, like I've never seen… Brains for Ravenclaw, but such ambition and so cunning, yes, and a pureblood… A good candidate for Slytherin house too… Yes, they'd like you…"_

The hat took a few more minutes of pondering. People around them must have been wondering what was happening.

_"Have you made up your mind yet?"_ Sherlock thought at the hat, annoyed at the unnecessary wait.

_"Oh, so difficult, so many ways this could go…"_

_"Ravenclaw or Slytherin, yes, such a difficult decision, effectively affecting my entire future, I realize. But this is taking a very prolonged time and as the one who's future is at hand, do I not get a word in this decision?"_

_"Oh, yes. I suppose you do, what do you say then?"_

_"Ravenclaw or Slytherin? I hardly care what house I'm placed in. Either way it will be just as dull, and both houses will be just as self-loving and unpleasant as the other, just curious. Even so, this is really becoming ridiculous, so make up your mind quickly."_

_"Oh yes, I see, a bit sardonic too, are we? Well then, it will have to be…" _

"SLYTHERIN!" the hat roared.

It was removed from his head and a great applause burst from the Slytherin side of the great hall. He sauntered to the Slytherin table and sat next to his brother, a seventh year prefect.

"Well done little brother, dear, come to join me then? That did take some time for that old hat to decide."

"Oh shut up, Mycroft."

* * *

"Watson, John!"

Sherlock watched him as he walked to be sorted. He walked confidently, but Sherlock could see his nervousness and John knew it. He sat down and he was enveloped in darkness. A voice spoke out, it sounded like it was distant, but in his head, like a thought, **"**_Oh, yes, very curious."_

This startled John a bit, not exactly what he was expecting, but he already knew the hat could talk from its merry Hogwarts song earlier, but he felt somehow violated, with it in his head, him _mind_.

_"Hm, another difficult one. Intelligent, loyal, oh and, yes, brave… Loyalty is very important don't you think? But, no, that's not for you… Oh, brains, but not quite right for Ravenclaw… Guess it will have to be…"_

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The Gryffindor table erupted into applause, and John nearly fell as he stumbled to his house, looking and feeling a bit dazed.

* * *

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Sherlock groaned. John was not only, not in the same house as him, but also in the _opposing_ house. Mycroft gave him a quizzical look, but Sherlock ignored him.

The Headmistress gave a speech about unity or something equally as dull and repetitive. She finally stopped with a last, "Enjoy the feast!"

Everyone began to dig in. Mycroft placed a cloth on his lap and ate like an absolute prince, the prat. Sherlock begrudgingly put a beef sandwich on his plate, and nibbled along the bread's edge, so that Mycroft would not nag him about his eating habits. Sherlock tried not to look at John, but he couldn't help himself. He quickly glanced up to the Gryffindor table, to see John laughing with another first year. He felt a pang in his stomach, not from hunger, but ignored it, and looked away, into the distance, thinking and pursing his lips into a thin line.

When the feast had finally ended, Mycroft and another female seventh year lead all the Slytherins to the common room. It was underground, in the dungeons, dim and all the shadows had a green tint, from the lake above, only separated by glass and what Sherlock suspected were several strengthening and protective charms, as to not fall in on them. It was all right, as far as common rooms went. He did not complain. Mycroft kept giving him concerned glances. Sherlock really wished he'd stop doing that.

9 o'clock finally rolled around and all the first years were ordered to bed. Sherlock was assigned to a room of five. He quickly deduced all of his room mates them.

First one: divorced parents, half-blood, and anger management issues, all brute no brains.

Second: closet gay.

Third: a rich, arrogant, dim-witted, proud pureblood, self-loving bastard.

Fourth: nervous to be in Slytherin, muggle-born, quiet, average intelligence, slow to make friends.

This would be just _fantastic_. Sherlock smirked, and without introducing himself to anyone, lay in bed and closed all the curtains. He did not sleep.

The next morning Sherlock dressed quickly in his robes, before any of the other boys, but did not go down to breakfast. Instead he sat in the common rooms, alone, thinking. He wondered what John was doing. Probably laughing with the other Gryffindor first years. He pursed his lips, not pleased at the thought.

He left the common room at the latest time he possibly could without missing class. He collected his schedule, first period, potions with Gryffindor. Perhaps he was with John. A small, involuntary smile played on his lips.

Sherlock entered the classroom, so far empty besides the teacher in at the front. He sat near the back. Students began to pour in. He ignored all of them. Dull, no one remotely interesting. He let his face form into its usual look of annoyance and an intense glare. He sat alone.

* * *

John rushed down to the dungeons, desperate not to be late to his first class. He just made it in time so that the teacher would have no reason to get him in trouble, but Professor Snape was annoyed nonetheless. He pointed him to the only seat left, next to a lanky, dark figure, with a severe look of distaste. Sherlock.

John gathered his things and sat next to him. Sherlock glanced up, clearly about to say something insolent but at seeing it was John, he stopped and contorted his face into what one might call a sly smile.

"Hello, John."

"Sherlock," he nodded. He already could tell this would be an eventful class. He was not disappointed.

Professor Snape was a bit intimidating, but despite John's almost tardiness, seemed to leave John alone. It was definitely better than what other got. He was a very strict teacher, but John was, to his surprise pretty good at potions so was left to continue without criticism. Sherlock on the other hand was, brilliant, of course. He managed to make a perfect potion on the first try, and he probably would have gotten full marks too, if he hadn't experimented on it by adding several drops of sulfuric acid, where he got it from John had no idea. Sherlock ended up blowing up the class. Thankfully, no one was hurt, a few people who were closest to the bang had grown an extra ear, and many were irritated, even Sherlock, but that was mostly due to his failed experiment. John thought it was hilarious, but Snape was not amused. He did not deduce any points from Slytherin though, the biased bastard. John didn't really care much though.

John's next class was Herbology with Hufflepuff. He eventually found his way to the correct green house and was greeted kindly by Professor Sprout. It was interesting, but really, how interesting could plants get, magical or not? It felt uneventful after that morning, and he found himself wondering where Sherlock was.

* * *

After a grueling first lesson of divination, which in Sherlock's opinion was one of the stupidest things he had been forced to witness, it was time for lunch in the great hall. He would of normally skipped lunch, he didn't need food, or at least he didn't think he did, it was a waste of time, but he wanted to see John again, though he didn't like to admit very much.

He did not want to sit with the rest of the Slytherins. They were all ambition, no brains, as well as all arrogant prats. Sherlock knew he also was not the humblest, kindest of people, but he couldn't bear people who thought themselves the best, when they were just morons with rich, pureblood parents. At least Sherlock was they way he was because of his intellect, not his ancestry.

He kind of wished he'd chosen Ravenclaw, not very much, but at least their common room was filled with books, and most people were decently intelligent. Though, the books _were_ filled with things he already knew and hardly card about, what he _really_ wanted to know about was muggles, and their muggle inventions. Science, something that muggles used, interested him; he needed to know more, but was never aloud to do so at home. His curiosity in muggles was part of the reason he wanted to see John so badly, but only a small part.

* * *

John entered the great hall; Mike chatting his ear off, ranting about some wizard thing John pretended he understood. He wasn't listening, not really. He caught himself looking around and realized he was searching for a particular tall, pale, dark haired boy. Where was Sherlock?

He couldn't see him anywhere, scanning over all the Slytherins. He sighed and sat at the Gryffindor table with Mike, who had stopped talking, giving John a strange look.

"Looking for someone?" he asked raising an eyebrow.

"I- uh, no," John spluttered.

"Yeah okay, whatever."

Suddenly, the empty long tables were filled with food and plates. John was starting to really like magic. He, along with the rest of the Gryffindors, began to eat, piling their plates high with sandwiches and potatoes and sausages, accompanied by a small plate of treacle tart. Then John heard some one clear their throat behind him. He turned, but was surprised to see Sherlock. John couldn't stop himself before his face broke into a goofy grin.

"Hi Sherlock."

"Uh, yes, hello," he paused, "As you know I'm not the best in social situations, so I don't know if it's considered appropriate to ask, if perhaps I could sit here instead? Frankly, I'm finding the all the other Slytherins to be moronic and infuriating." A boy across from John murmured in agreement, but Sherlock ignored him.

"Uh…"

"Of course if you don't wish me to…" he started uncomfortably.

"Oh no! That's not it at all. It's just, I don't actually know if people are allowed to sit at other houses' tables…" John turned back to Mike and the other Gryffindors, but they all just shrugged. Apparently no one knew. "Well, I suppose it's okay." He scooted down the bench a bit and patted the space next to him.

Sherlock cautiously sat down, clearly uncomfortable sitting with the other Gryffindors. John continued his meal, as did the students around him, but Sherlock just continued to sit very straight and still, not touching anything, looking into the distance.

"Sherlock, aren't you going to eat anything?" John asked him.

"What? No, it slows me down. I have no need for food."

"That's contradictory, you need energy. When's the last time you ate?"

"What day is it, again?"

"Wednesday…"

"I'll be fine for another day," he said dismissively.

"Another day? Sherlock, you have to eat!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but begrudgingly accepted the plate of bread and cheese that John forced in front of him, and began to nibble.

A few minutes later, which Sherlock had stayed silent during, something that John was not used to him being, Sherlock said, "That boy's just stolen from Professor Snape." He almost said it to himself, but then realized that John had heard.

John followed Sherlock's eyes, onto a teenage Slytherin boy.

"What? How could you possibly know that?" John said doubtfully.

Sherlock groaned as if it was painfully obvious how he could see. A small Gryffindor girl sat across from them asked, "Did you see him do it?" and then half the people at the table, who were near them, were listening.

"No I did not see him in the act of stealing the boomslang skin, in person, but I know."

"How? You can't know unless you saw him," accused another.

Sherlock sighed again, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, he then launched into explanation, "I did not have to see him steal it, because I can clearly tell from just looking at him. Look, he appears smug, as well as some of his friends, mostly him though. He's accomplished something, but not something he's willing to share with everyone, but impressive enough to be proud. Obviously it has to be something against the rules, otherwise it wouldn't be kept and he's a Slytherin, who have the best, or worse, depending on how you see it, reputation when it comes to trouble. He is still nervous, so it's just happened. Lunch is always a good opportune to make trouble with less chance of being caught. Also, see how he keeps uneasily glancing to the teachers' table? He still is worried about being caught, but more than that, he's done something to one of the teachers. Professor Snape. He's the only one who's really got anything worth stealing, restricted ingredients, and if he did find out, he'd let them off easier because he is their head of house and would want to take to many points off of his own house, so less of a risk for the amateurs, which he clearly is, being a 3rd year, and an idiot. He's got flakes on his robes too, and not from any food. Look at the coloring and texture of the flakes, obviously boomslang skin, which would be something valuable to steal from Professor Snape's personal potions cupboard," He finished simply. The others gaped. "It's hardly a difficult deduction, child's play."

* * *

John was at a loss for words, as well as everyone else who'd been listening.

"How can you do that?" he asked amazed.

"John, I'm simply observing, nothing more," Sherlock shrugged.

"That's- that's amazing!" John said, practically beaming.

"You think?" Sherlock said, suppressing a smile. It was rare that anyone appreciated his deductions.

"Of course it was!"

Sherlock had been quelling his observations so far for John's sake, which he would never normally do, for _anyone, _and he was finding it difficult, but he was a bit afraid it would scare him off, so he did. He was definitely not expecting this reaction at all, but he liked it. From now on he would not be repressing any of his thoughts. He smiled to himself. This would get very interesting very fast.

* * *

**A/N: SHAZAM! There you go, the second chapter! Hope you didn't think Sherlock was out of character. Of course our Sherlock would never repress his observations for someone else, but I think this version might. He's still young and more open to the idea of friends, he wants to be liked, just like any other kid, he's just still a bit social inept. He's began to give up, but John might just yet change that. The regular Sherlock we know I think gave up a long time ago when he was young, but this is before that. SO HOPE IT WAS ENJOYABLE. **

**Please review and all that awesome stuff! :)**

**And I'm sorry (not really) but I just need Sherlock to sass the hat. Just seems so Sherlocky. :P**


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